


on the wing

by rievu



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Gen, a mish-mash of everything wonderful and brilliant and saddening, and some of the more serious moments as well, the usual shenanigans in kirkwall
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-23 08:59:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13186746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rievu/pseuds/rievu
Summary: a series of memories and moments from hawke and the gang in their times in kirkwall





	1. a moment in the hanged man

**Author's Note:**

> my god i feel like i'm always just making series of drabbles and never anything continuous and serious..... rip..... hope you like it anyways!

The Hanged Man is positively brimming with people, and the loud sound of laughter, music, and ruckus constantly fills the air. Ale is flowing from the barrels, and drunkards continue to slam down more gold on the table. Whether it’s for gambling or for more alcohol, no one can ever quite figure it out. And in the usual corner, Hawke and her cadre of companions settle in for a good night of drinking.

Hawke quirks an eyebrow as she continues to sip the ale in her tankard. “Now, now, I don’t think that it was _that_ bad,” she hums. “We got out alive, didn’t we?”

Varric snorts, “By the skin of our teeth. Let’s not repeat that ever again.”

Hawke waves her hand nonchalantly as she says, “You say that, but we all know that some sort of similar thing will happen to us again.” Aveline wrinkles her brow and sighs, “Make knows how you manage it, Hawke.”

Hawke laughs sharply as she beckons Norah, the barmaid, over to refill their tankards. “Must be a Maker-given gift then.”

Fenris dryly says, “More like a curse than a gift.”

Hawke merely taps him reprovingly on the shoulder and replies with mock horror, “Fenris, you can’t just say that about my talents! Getting into trouble and setting fires are a few of my best skills!”

Merrill wraps her slim fingers around her own tankard and says almost wistfully, “I wish I were as good at Hawke. When it comes to setting fires, I mean. It’s always so hard to get the spark from the flint to catch onto wet wood.”

Anders sets his tankard down with a thud and says incredulously, “Merrill, you’re a _mage_. Why would you waste your time with a flint?”

Isabela quickly hushes him and says, “No need to announce it to the public.”

Anders grumbles, “It’s not like everybody in this tavern doesn’t know about it.”

Merrill shrugs and explains, “The flint’s useful when the templars come into the alienage every now and then. Also, I nearly set my chimney on fire the last time I tried to use magic on my fireplace.” She pauses and blinks owlishly. “Dalish campfires are just so much more open than these fireplace things that you people have.”

Hawke claps her hands together and grins, “Glad to see that at least one of my friends supports me and my talents!”

Aveline almost chokes on her own sip of ale and sputters, “What do you mean? We always support you!”

Isabela loops her arm around Hawke’s shoulders and chimes in, “Of course we do, sweetheart! Isabela’s got your back!”

Hawke turns to give Isabela a deadpan stare and says flatly, “What happened to ‘I like big boats, I cannot lie’?”

Isabela raises her hands up in defense and says blithely, “Now, Hawke, you have to admit, the boat _was_ very nice. And I _am_ weak for big boats. And also, surely the rest of us wouldn’t abandon you — “

Hawke cuts her off, “Funny, I seem to remember that I was left all alone in the Fade.”

Fenris and Aveline have the decency to flush red, but Anders stubbornly says, “I wouldn’t have.”

Fenris arches an eyebrow and asks sarcastically, “Is that so?”

Before Anders can retort back, Hawke interrupts them. " _My point is,_ you all should appreciate me more.”

Varric swallows his last gulp of ale before he wipes his mouth and sighs with satisfaction. Then, he looks up and says frankly, “Hawke, you do things on a regular basis that are questionable and yeah, you’ll probably get ridiculed by us every now and then. Even Bianca would agree.” He pauses and pats his crossbow lovingly but quickly raises his hand to stop Hawke’s squawk of protest. “But hey, you do some things every now and then that gets you validation.”

Aveline rubs her chin in thought and muses, “So, is that why Hawke’s been running around, doing nearly everything for everyone? I thought that it was to avoid the frilly dresses and tea parties with the nobility.”

Varric shrugs, “Probably that too.”

Hawke sputters, “That was completely unnecessary, Aveline! And not true!” She splays her hand across her chest and proclaims dramatically, “Believe it or not, I do favors for other people out of the _goodness_ of my _heart!”_

The entire group dissolves into laughter, and even Hawke struggles to keep a straight face before she finally breaks and giggles along.


	2. the bread goat

“Hawke, I have a favor to ask.”

Hawke raises an eyebrow and asks, “Do you want me to get more copper marigolds?”

Aveline glares at her and says tightly, “Hawke.”

Hawke laughs as she raises her hands up in defense before quickly saying, “Okay, okay, sorry about that, Aveline. What do you need?”

Aveline twists her hands together and glances around her as if thugs would come out and beat them or something like that. Hawke glances around as well, wondering what exactly was going on. Nothing seemed off. If anything, it was just another day in the Hightown markets. But then again, you could never tell with Kirkwall. Probably another group of bandits just around the alley corner or a pair of lovers passionately kissing in another alley just a ways down. Aveline quietly says, “You must promise to keep it a secret.”

Hawke laughs nervously and agrees, “Alright, I swear by my middle finger.” Usually, when Aveline tells her to keep it  _a secret_ , it's something that isn't always the most fun.

“Hawke.”

“What?” Hawke bemusedly asks. “I use my middle finger more often than I go to the chantry, so I figured that it would be better to swear on that than by the Maker or Andraste or something.”

Aveline pinches her temples and mutters, “Why did I even bother to ask you…”

Hawke pokes her on the shoulder and says, “Hey, hey, who’s the person who went out and got you copper marigolds and even hand-delivered them for you? I even delivered them with a heartfelt message!”

Aveline looks up at her and weakly says, “Alright. I need a goat made out of bread.”

The smile on Hawke’s face freezes and she echoes, “A goat made out of bread?”

Aveline nods and repeats, “I need a goat made out of bread.”

With an aghast expression, Hawke asks, “Why do you need a goat made out of bread?”

Aveline raises her hands to stop Hawke before she says anything more. “It’s traditional, you know? For the bride to bring a dowry of some sort like a few sheafs of wheat and a goat. I know that Donnic and I are already married, but I feel bad for not bringing a proper dowry with me or anything like that. Besides, we don’t have the space or the tools to work with grain or livestock here in Kirkwall, so I thought that a goat made out of bread would be the best substitute.”

Hawke gapes at her before she breathes out, “This is somehow  _worse_ than the copper marigolds.”

“Hawke!”

Now, it's Hawke’s turn to pinch her temples, but she raises her chin and says, “Fine. If you really want your bread goat, then I’ll get you your bread goat. Because I am a wonderful friend.”

Aveline smiles, and the sudden happiness that suffuses her face makes Hawke feel almost guilty for saying that it was a terrible idea.

Well, it _is_ a terrible idea, but Aveline looks so happy that Hawke doesn't have the heart to say no.

Aveline suddenly pulls her into a crushing hug that pushes all the air out of Hawke’s lungs, and as Hawke struggles to take a breath, Aveline gratefully says, “You are a wonderful friend, Hawke. Thank you.” Hawke weakly returns the embrace with limp arms, but she feels all warm and fuzzy inside.

  
Once Aveline lets go and goes off to her next patrol, Hawke saunters back down the Hightown streets wondering how she could cajole Orana into baking a loaf of bread in the shape of a goat.


	3. unconventional healing

Anders runs into the alienage panting. An elven boy ran to his clinic, near tears, and told him about an attack by some “shem” in the alienage. With that, Anders flung his cloak on and sprinted up to Lowtown, but he freezes when he sees the scene before him and cries out, “What are you doing?!”

Merrill is on the ground, hunched over a man, with the telltale aura of blood magic wreathing her. Anders almost sinks to the ground himself with some strange mixture of horror and tangible fear. Of all the things that she could have done at night, she decides to go the final step to being a maleficar: taking blood from another to obtain more magical power.

She lifts her head up to glance at him briefly before returning to her work. “Healing,” she simply says.

Anders rushed over and sputters, “You can’t heal with blood magic! You’ll make it worse! Not even my healing spells will work if you use blood magic on him!” He rucks up the hem of his robes and summons the familiar surge of healing magic to his fingertips, but Merrill shushes him and tries to shoo him away with one bloodstained hand.

She bites her lip as she concentrates, “It’s not that you can’t heal with blood. People just don’t do it as often — oh Creators, he’s moving too much, his wound is reopening!” She calls out in a louder voice, “Laisa, please pass me the elfroot!”

A young elven girl slips out of Merrill’s small house with a bowl heavy with the pungent scent of elfroot. Merrill accepts it and scoops out dollops of an elfroot poultice on the slash wound on the man’s abdomen, pressing it firmly down. She wraps another bandage around in an attempt to staunch the wound.

Anders snaps, “Step aside, Merrill. I’ll handle it from here.”

She replies rather distractedly, “I was, _am_ , the first of my clan, Anders. I know what to do.”

Anders nearly explodes. “But it’s _blood magic!_ You won’t be able to seal or stitch the wound up magically! Let me do it before you ruin it!”

Merrill now snaps, “I _won’t_ ruin it, just wait!” She then proceeds to ignore him and croons some sort of elven lullaby under her breath as she finishes off the bandage and ties it neatly. She turns her focus on her blood magic now, scanning the man’s body, and Anders feels sick when he sees it. It’s red and hazy and he swears that it is calling out with a strong power. Justice shifts in the back of his mind and roils in turmoil at the blood magic stickily weaving and oozing around him. By this point, Anders knows that it’s too late for his healing spells to even work, but he can’t tear his eyes away from what witchery Merrill is performing.

She finishes off the last stanza of her little tune and stands up, swaying on her feet before the young girl holds her arm and keeps her steady. The job is seemingly done. “Ma serannas, Laisa,” she thanks softly. Two other elves slip out of their houses to carry the bandaged man inside. Merrill rubs her hands against her hopelessly reddened robes and faces Anders. She says solemnly, without a trace of the girlish lightness that so often accompanies her, “I’m not a fool, Anders. I know my herbs, I know my training, I know what I’ve learned.” A wry smile cracks along her mouth as she says, “Goodness, I’d have made a terrible keeper, that’s for sure, but I still know what to do.”

Merrill blinks slowly as she focuses on Anders.

“You’re not alone,” she says softly. “You don’t have to do everything on your own. You don’t have to heal everything in this city.”

 _You can’t fix everything_ , is what Anders feels from her words, and he knows that it’s irrational to place words in Merrill’s mouth. But still, he flares defensively and bites out, “I know that. But blood magic?! And you’re not even your Keeper’s First anymore! You left that all behind!” Justice agrees wholeheartedly, and he can feel the cracks of the spirit begin to seep through his skin. It’s a petty, insignificant thing, especially when considering the fact that she just left, but it slips out of his mouth without a hesitation.

Merrill glances down at her hands and frowns. “All I did was to keep the blood inside and not out, and I packed the wound with the elfroot and chanted Sylaise’s song,” she says. “And some things are better left for time to heal.”

Anders knows that time is the best healer of them all, especially when it comes to broken things, but he still cannot tamp down his fury, his rage, and he can’t tell if it’s Justice or him thinking those thoughts. Perhaps both. He turns away abruptly and leaves without a single word.


	4. a moment on the docks

The embers in the fireplace crackle and pop as Hawke stirs them up with the poker. She stares listlessly into the dying coals until they finally die out.

It's another day in this shack of a house and everything is blessedly silent. She supposes that it would be better for her to re-light the fire, but everybody is already asleep and winter hasn't set in yet. Besides, Kirkwall winters were nothing like the Ferelden ones, so Carver and Mother would be fine. Uncle Gamlen could go to the blooming rose to warm himself up for all she cared. Hawke stands up and stretches out all the kinks in heer sore muscles before she carefully sets the poker aside and pads out of the house.

She can't stand another minute in this house.  
  
It's been a long day of work, and she is aching and sore and tired and irritated. She grips her staff in her hand as she strides down the streets. Every thug or mercenary that dares to get in her way gets a pointed glare as a final warning. All who see it heed it. After all, she's developed a rather infamous reputation for killing a slew of thugs and mercenaries under the cover of night.  
  
Her steps are louder than normal, weighted with her own turmoil, and somehow, she finds her feet taking her to the docks. The docks still reek of fish and salt and aging, wet wood, but at night, the sound of the water lapping against the edges of the docks is strangely calming. If she casts out her magic thinly, she can sense people lurking in the alleys and dark corners, but like before, all stay out of her way.  
  
Until Isabela comes with jewelry clinking. Purposefully loud, Hawke suspects, so that she won't be too startled and stab her with summoned ice.  
  
"Hello, Hawke," she says in that familiar warm voice of hers. "And what are you doing out here on the docks? it's a bit late for you, isn't it?"

Hawke lifts her head up to look at her dully and replies flatly, "I needed to get out for a while, Bela. that's all."

Isabela goes over to sit next to her by the edges of the carved rock that makes up Kirkwall.  As she swings her legs against the rock, she hums, "I do love the sound of the water. It sounds even better when you're on a ship."

Hawke snorts, "I've been on a ship, and it's not calming at all."

Isabela tuts, "Oh, Fereldans and their lack of appreciation for ships."

Hawke glances at her and points out, "You know, we had a navy of ships that kicked the Orlesians out. The leader was the Teyrness of Highever, actually. The story of the Soldier and the Seawolf."

Isabela examines her fingernails as she speaks, "Well, I wish I could have met that woman. She must have been a delight."

Silence stretches between them for a moment too long before Isabela finally says, "Alright, pet, do you want to break out the alcohol or do you want to talk about it?"

Hawke snorts and spreads out her hands, "Why not both?"

Isabela agrees, "Why not?" She pulls out a small flask by her hip and passes it to Hawke who drinks from it deeply. The alcohol burns as it goes down the throat, but it's a familiar burn that will soon turn almost comforting.

Hawke stares at the dark water and says slowly, "I can't stand this damn city."

Isabela drinks from the flask as well before she muses, "You're not wrong; this city is a complete mess and I miss my ship."

Hawke buries her face in her arms as she grumbles, "I try, you know. I really do try, but for all I do, everything still goes wrong."  
  
Isabela reaches her hand out to pat her back, but she hesitates. Hawke does not need that reassurance right now, so instead, she passes the flask to her silently. They share the alcohol between them, and it numbs the edge enough for Hawke. She lets out a long and heavy breath before she glances up at Isabela. Isabela's surprised at how bright they look, with unshed tears glittering at the edges.  
  
"Carver still makes trouble, Mother still blames me for nearly everything, Gamlen continues to throw our money away, and no matter how hard I try, I still don't have enough money for the damn expedition." Hawke pauses to take a breath before she finishes, "It's never going to be enough, is it?" Isabela stares at Hawke, but Hawke doesn't even see it; her eyes are directed only at the black waters lapping dangerously close to her feet hanging off the edge of the docks. Never has Isabela seen Hawke like this before. The woman is a force of nature, a force to be reckoned with. Hawke has ice and fire in her blood, and she wields magic and blade equally well.She is dangerous and bright and always laughing, and yet, here, under the moonlight and the oil lamps that hang from the lampposts, she looks... Vulnerable.  
  
Isabela wonders if Hawke has already had more than her fair share to drink. Perhaps that was what tipped her over the edge, and Isabela tends to carry around the stronger stuff in her flask. But then again, Hawke has a tendency to have a high resistance to that sort of thing. She's seen Hawke down the nastiest of concoctions without harm. What's to say that her alcohol will do anything? Hawke's shoulders are hunched, and she leans forward to stare at the waters as she says glumly, "Sorry, Bela, I shouldn't have snapped like that."

Isabela reaches over to wrap her arm around Hawke and pull her in for a comforting sort of half-embrace. Her jewelry clinks against itself as she pulls Hawke in closer and says softly, "Oh, Hawke."  
  
The two women remain like that for a while. Their flask sits forgotten beside them, and the water continues to rise and fall against the old dwarven stone of Kirkwall and the wood of the docks. The scent of salt lies heavily in the air, and a few tears add to it.

Finally, Hawke gets up, stretching the kinks out of her back, and Isabela gets up too. She ignores the redness around Hawke's eyes and tucks the flask away. "Go home, Hawke," she says. "You're probably more than drunk right now."

Hawke glances at her as she lifts her staff off her back. "Hmm," she muses. "would you believe me if I said I wasn't?"  
  
_Yes_ , Isabela thinks. "No," Isabela says.  
  
"Alright then," Hawke says simply. "I'll go home and sleep it off." She turns to leave, but after a few steps, she stops and says without turning around, "Thank you, Isabela."

Isabela crosses her arms and regards Hawke for a moment before she replies, "I'm here anytime, Hawke."

Hawke leaves, and the last glimpse Isabela has of her is the hem of her shirt fluttering as she turns around a street corner back to the shacks of Lowtown.  
  
Isabela feels like Hawke has placed something fragile in her hands. This knowledge, this moment, was not so easily given and easily broken with the wrong touch. She knows that she cannot be here "anytime" for the Tome of Koslun grows heavier on her mind and her previous deals have chains on her still and the Qunari grow ever restless in this damn city.  
  
But still, she thinks. But still.  
  
Maybe there is more of a chance beside Hawke than anywhere else. After all, if Hawke can trust her with this moment of vulnerability (and for someone like them, that moment could mean death), then perhaps Isabela could place her trust in _her_.  
  
Perhaps.


End file.
